


Thrust Exercises

by nire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I didn't want to give it this title but it's what stuck, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wedding Night, happy valentine's day ya pervs, i refuse to apologise for this, introducing strip-sparring: a way to escalate the inherent eroticism of swordfights, this is easily the sluttiest jaime i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29354307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire
Summary: To break the awkward tension of their wedding night, Jaime challenges Brienne to a contest.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 39
Kudos: 205
Collections: The Exchange that was Promised: Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021





	Thrust Exercises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenmtwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmtwoman/gifts).



> Dear greenmtwoman, you requested, among others, "canon, arranged marriage, awkward but hot wedding night". I hope this delivers all of that, and a few elements on your likes list too. I'm relatively confident about the awkward part, at least, and my betas assured me that it was also hot. As for the title of the fic... I won't apologise for it, but it also wasn't my idea.
> 
> My thanks for my betas for the edits, for helping make this fic as short as it could be, for calling out Jaime for being a major slut, and for... coming up with this title... and egging me on to use it. You are all monsters.
> 
> And thank you to wildlingoftarth and bussdowntarthiana for organising the event!

As the bedchamber doors closed behind them, Brienne was left alone with her husband and the mutual understanding of what should happen now. They were neither of them unwilling; the courtship, the betrothal, the wedding, all had been undertaken with consent. She liked him, even. She couldn’t say the same of any other man that had vied for her hand, but she liked Ser Jaime.

She thought he might like her, too. They were friends of a sort. Friends who had vowed to love each other until the end of their days.

“Is aught amiss, my lady?”

She started. He hovered, a little bit outside her reach. They’d spent many hours circling each other in the courtyard of Evenfall Hall, blade in hand; the distance was perhaps a force of habit. Or perhaps, he didn’t wish to be near her for another reason entirely. In any case, she was glad to have the room to breathe.

The knot between his brows deepened and she realised that she hadn’t answered his question.

“No,” she said. “No, it is nothing.”

“Oh, that bodes ill, indeed,” he said with a grin that she knew was crafted specifically to boil her blood. “Tell me, have you regrets? Would you wish an annulment to be arranged?”

“No!” she exclaimed; he blinked in surprise. “I don’t—no. I told you, nothing is wrong—”

He took a step forward, then another, and wrapped her hand in his, the touch gentle and careful. “I was merely teasing you,” he said. “I don’t want an annulment.”

“Good.” She might not have been happy when Father had come home from the rebellion with the Kingslayer in tow, and she’d been furious to hear that he’d been given the post that had belonged to the late Ser Goodwin. But five years had been a long time, and when Father had proposed the match, Brienne had found herself almost happy to accept. “Good,” she repeated. “Nor do I.”

“But something is troubling you, still.” He searched her face. “Is it the bedding? Ah, it is. You know—”

“Will you _stop_ speaking for me?”

“I don’t need to, Lady Brienne. Your face is very loud. Any charlatan at a mummer’s show could divine your thoughts from the pursing of your lips.” His face fell; she knew then that hers, too, must’ve done the same. Loud, indeed. “I only meant—” he began, but already she pulled away and to the first thing she saw that could occupy her hands: the wine.

She poured herself a cup and drained half of it. She was unused to drinking so much all at once; it burned on the way down and coiled in her stomach like a snake. “Shall I pour some for you?”

“No, no. It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve too much already.”

“Oh,” she said. She set down the carafe. Not knowing what else to say, she sat on her sofa and nursed her cup. _Their_ sofa, she supposed. These were their quarters now. As punishment for his kingslaying, Jaime could never inherit any land. But he was still her husband, and she was to share her quarters with his, and their children would inherit the island.

This future had felt impossible. Even now, it felt improbable. Ser Jaime had married her, and he had promised to love her, and yet. She could fathom him loving her, in a way old friends loved one another, but to sire her children, to bed her, to love her as a lover would…

He had not removed his clothing, had not asked her to retire to the bed, nor made any other such comments that, according to Septa Roelle, meant a bedding was to ensue. Indeed, Ser Jaime seemed perfectly content as he perched on the other edge of Brienne’s sofa, stretching his legs before him.

“It’s been a long day,” he explained when he caught her staring.

Brienne looked away. “Yes, it has.” She felt the exhaustion too. In a bout of madness, she kicked off her uncomfortably tight embroidered shoes, wiggling her half-numb toes. “At least your boots seem comfortable.”

“Not at all,” he said, bending down to unlace those very same boots. “They’re new and still so terribly stiff.”

“Ah,” she said with a grimace. She’d stepped on his toes again. Just as well they hadn’t danced at the feast.

“Don’t look so forlorn,” he said, stealing a glance at her before turning back to his boots. “What is a marriage if we don’t share our sufferings? There. They’re off now, and our feet are equally freed.”

So they were. He stretched his legs once more, aligning his right foot with her left, the bone of his ankle brushing hers. Her face grew hot. She’d seen his bare feet before—they’d snuck away to swim at the cove, one hot afternoon—and she hadn’t thought much of it. Here, however, on their wedding night, the sight felt obscene.

She folded her legs under her. Felt the burn of his gaze following her movement.

He said, “You needn’t fear me,” and she answered, too quickly, “I don’t.”

And they fell into silence again.

She finished what wine was left in the cup. The silence was a rumble in her ears, in her chest, so she broke it and said, “I am not afraid of you.” When he said nothing, she continued, “I only—I have never…” Her voice became smaller as her face became hotter. She couldn’t look up at him beneath heavy lids and flutter her eyelashes beguilingly; nor could she find the composure to—as Father had once put it—use her words.

“I will not force you,” he said, too gently for her liking.

“I know that,” she snapped, exasperated. “Besides,” she continued, unable to resist, “it’s hard to force someone who can easily beat you.”

Something in his expression sharpened. She wondered if she should simply start eating her own shoes so she would not misspeak again, but he snorted and said lightly, “Insulting my honour _and_ my skill in one breath? I’m afraid I must ask for satisfaction, my lady.”

Before she could ask him what he was going on about, he bent down and extracted two wooden swords from under the sofa.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He offered her one of the swords, and her hand took it before she collected her thoughts. Eventually, she asked, “How much did you bribe my maid to hide these?”

“I bribed no one,” he said.

“Jaime...”

“All right, fine. One stag.”

Brienne sighed. “And whatever did you tell them when they asked you why you’d be needing wooden swords in my—our—in here?”

“I told them they could have another stag if they asked no questions.” He waved his sword at her as if he was a father, the sword a finger, and she his child. “Don’t change the subject, my lady. We were speaking of your insult to my character.”

“And your skill,” she added helpfully. “Though it isn’t much of an insult when—”

Brienne yelped as Jaime swiped clumsily across the length of the sofa. She jumped up and back, her own sword held up to parry the blow, leaving only a fraction of her arse on the cushions while her legs supported her half-seated weight.

He smiled, all teeth and taunt. “Oh, my apologies. I forgot to account for the wine you’ve had. I’ll be sure to slow myself down to give you a fair chance.”

She bared her teeth at him and lunged—or attempted to, anyway. What happened was more akin to a drunken slide as her legs gave way and she half-fell from the sofa to the floor, catching herself before it became a full tumble and righting her stance as if it had been what she’d meant to do after all. Ser Jaime looked at her as if she’d flipped her skirt in front of the sept; delight and incredulity and concern all mingled into one absurd mask. She bit her lip, lest she laughed. She didn’t know why—she wasn’t drunk, despite his insinuations, merely a little bit warmed by the wine—but she felt giddy.

Giddy! Now that was an emotion Septa Roelle would never have approved of, much less in relation to a wedding night. But then, she’d probably never approve of swords in the bedchamber, either.

Brienne adjusted her grip and her stance, taking a step sideways so she wouldn’t stumble into the sofa if she tried to lunge. Her cheeks ached from the crazed grin she was no doubt wearing. “You’re not making a particularly good case for your honour, Ser,” she called out. “Cross my blade on even ground, if you’re not too craven for it.”

“Ah, and now she insults my courage!” he exclaimed gleefully. “My lady Brienne, you are a treasure indeed. One with clumsy feet.” He swiped at her legs on that last remark, but she deftly pinned his blade to the floor with her own, putting her foot down to secure both swords as he tried to wriggle his own loose. 

She raised an eyebrow as he continued to tug, and just as he was putting his whole weight on it, she let go.

He fell on his bottom, blinking down at the floor, disbelieving, then up to her, past the tip of her wooden sword that was almost tickling his nose.

“Well done,” he said, tilting his head in concession.

“Another?” she asked. Her heart was thudding in her chest pleasantly, the thrill of exercise and traded taunts thrumming in her veins. Before her, Jaime looked up and the firelight caught the angles of his face, his smile. His eyes seemed dark, dark as the dips of dimples on his cheek, dark as the column of his throat. His smile dropped, then. His mouth closed. He swallowed, and the shadows by his collars shifted as he did.

Belatedly, Brienne realised that he might not want another bout. That he should not want it, and neither should she. He’d done her a kindness with the practice swords; they had helped her overcome her nerves, helped her be more at ease. But the time for games was over. The moon had tipped past its peak, and soon they should retire to bed, where they would be husband and wife.

She lowered her sword. “Or perhaps—”

His expression was still odd and unsmiling when he said, “Yes, let us.”

She frowned. “Truly?”

“Truly.” He pushed himself up, standing before her. “But it _is_ late, my lady. So if I might propose a game?”

“A game?”

“Yes. One that might help us on our way to bed. If you’re willing, of course, to proceed with the bedding.”

Brienne flushed red once more, and she knew it was not due to the exertions. She lowered her eyes for a second but then forced them up to meet his gaze. “I am… not unwilling.”

His lips pressed into a tremulous smile, unfitting and odd on his usually cocksure face. So softly she could barely hear it, he said, “I had hoped so.”

She cleared her throat. “So, what are the terms?”

“The terms, yes. You’re aware, of course, that some knights like to lie with another?”

She wasn’t, but she found herself not too surprised by this news. Still, she pointed out, “I’m no knight.”

“You fight better than most of them. And besides, all it takes are two swords to cross. Now, ours are only wooden, unlike the different swords knights brandish for this game…” He stopped briefly, smirking at the way she blushed so readily at the innuendo. “... but it should suffice. It’s just like any other bout, with one additional rule. Whenever someone takes a hit, he or she must take off one item on their person.”

Brienne understood. It was, somehow, so very easy to imagine. It shouldn’t be, yet it was, and she found herself—as with the bedding—not unwilling. “I knocked you down to the floor,” she said. “Does that mean…”

“Oh, indeed.” Jaime smiled, reaching both hands to his collar as if about to remove his doublet. She found her breath catching for no reason. “You are, as ever, a quick study.” Instead of undoing the fastening on his collar, however, his hands met to ease a ring off his middle finger. He dropped it onto the low table before the sofa and she dropped the anticipation in her chest. “There. May we proceed?”

So they did. It was not a true bout. Ser Goodwin would roll in his grave if he could see the way Brienne gripped the blade of her wooden sword and swung the thing around like a quarterstaff. Likewise, Ser Jaime forwent his usual deadly precision, preferring to clumsily jab and lunge at her with varying degrees of success.

They were as well-matched in silliness as they were in skill.

The stakes started low. Her numerous hairpins and his numerous rings, removed one by one with every hit. The rope of pearls off her neck, then his cravat. The hammered gold belt around her waist.

Soon, they would have to begin removing actual items of clothing. Her heart was beating fast from exercise and excitement, her temples damp with sweat. She looked forward to shedding her dress.

Not until he earned it, however.

They circled each other, slow, careful. The marbled floor was cold against her naked soles, sending shivers up her otherwise warm body. His eyes narrowed.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“Oh, not at all,” she said, rolling her shoulders and enjoying the way his gaze followed the movement. Instead of returning to her stance, she feinted.

He lowered his sword to his hip to block. The blow caught his upper arm instead.

“You’re slow in your dotage,” Brienne said, mock-chiding. He was not twenty-four, and not much older than she was besides, but no one had ever said that courtyard taunts had to make much sense.

He laughed. “It appears that I am. Forgive me, my lady, for exposing my frail, elderly body to you.”

Slowly, he undid his buttons one by one, until his doublet hung open and revealed his undershirt, a sheet of thin cotton glued to his skin with his own sweat. The neckline hung low enough to show his collarbone and part of his chest, fair hair smattered over his skin. He shrugged his shoulders, the sleeves of the doublet pulling against his muscles. Waggling his eyebrows, he peeled the doublet off. His ridiculous expression only slightly distracted her from the way the undershirt went taut at the pulling of his sleeves.

He tossed the garment away and faced her again, on guard. Sweat dripped from his hair to his collarbone, then further down. As he bowed his back slightly in his stance, the undershirt unstuck and fell from his skin and the neckline revealed a little more of his body, and—

—a quick rap on her wrist, swift as a tutor’s switch.

“Ha!” he exclaimed victoriously. “Should’ve paid attention.”

“I am,” she insisted.

“Oh, I know.” He stretched his arms up, arching his back. “I didn’t know you liked the view so much.”

She threw her gaze away. “Shut up,” she said, busying herself with the penalty of her undressing. Her hands tangled in the laces behind her back. She tugged and tugged and they didn’t give. What kind of knot had her maids used this morning?

“Need help?”

“No.” She pulled at the cords again and found a dead knot at their meeting between her shoulder blades. Her arms ached. Angry tears began to well in her eyes, despite herself. “Maybe,” she allowed, and pulled her hair over her shoulders. Bowed her head. And waited.

He was quick to assist. He worked on the knot, his knuckles brushing the nape of her neck. She could imagine the way the tip of his tongue rested between his teeth, the way his brows furrowed as if he’d been doing inventory at the armoury. His breath was warm against her neck; gooseflesh bloomed on her skin, down her chest.

And too soon, she felt the laces giving way and her dress loosening around her, more and more. She moved to peel it off her arms, her body. He rested his hands on her shoulders.

“Allow me,” he said, low and almost reverential.

She nodded, the lump in her throat clogging her words from forming.

Under her dress, Brienne still had her shift and her stays and her petticoat on. And yet, as Jaime carefully eased the dress off her frame, as his fingers brushed the naked skin of her arms, as he lowered himself to the floor and gathered her skirts around her feet, as he waited for her to step out of it—she felt so bare, she could hardly breathe.

Brienne rarely wore dresses, having disliked them since she was little. When Father had commissioned a seamstress from the mainland to make her a wedding gown, Brienne had told the woman that if she had to have an expensive dress, then she must make the most out of it. The result was a lovely, practical dress made out of deep blue silk, its stitching sturdy and its design simple enough that in the future no one was like to notice that it was the same dress she’d worn for her wedding.

She had told Jaime this, during one of their many bouts before the wedding. She hadn’t expected him to remember.

But now, he laid the dress out on the sofa, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. Tomorrow morning, her maids would take the dress in perfect condition and keep it until she needed to wear a dress again.

Brienne had heard of stories of men so overcome with passion, they tore the clothes off of their wives. She wondered if she preferred the thoughtlessness of such a love over the care of this arrangement.

“Are you all right?” he asked gravely.

She scraped her voice out of her throat and managed a weak, “Yes,” and—before she could drown in her thoughts again—she attempted a feeble jab with her sword.

To her surprise, he made no effort to dodge or block, and the tip of her wooden sword made contact with his middle. He looked down to it, then to her. “Very well, then,” he said, moving to remove his undershirt.

“Wait,” she said. He stopped, an eyebrow cocked. She cleared her throat. “I’ll do it.”

He stepped closer to her and opened his arms, standing still. Her eyes followed his face, something in the knot of his brows and the slight part of his lips. She’d kissed those lips at the wedding. It had been nice.

She ducked her head and gathered his undershirt in her hands. His breeches were so tight that she wondered if tugging on the undershirt would do much good. She bit her lip. His whole body froze.

She looked up; he shook his head. “Go on.”

As it turned out, the tight confines of his waistband did not constrain the undershirt much. With two slow pulls, it was freed. Brienne lifted it over his head and came face-to-face with his bare skin. And what skin he had, with a healthy tan only slightly lighter than his face, taut muscles underneath. She had long tried to ignore his beauty, and yet now…

He moved to place his undershirt down. Her eyes followed the way his stomach folded, his back stretched. She did not watch his hand. Did not notice the wooden sword until it tapped her hip lightly.

“You cheated,” she said, though she failed to sound appropriately disapproving.

“Yes, well,” Jaime said, dropping the sword to loop his arms around her waist, his fingers playing with the ties of her petticoat. “Will you forbid me from taking this off, then?”

She glared at him, but said nothing as he made quick work of the petticoat. Then he stepped back and looked at her, lingering on her calves.

She shifted, self-conscious, but he was quiet as he extended a hand to her. She took it before she could think of what he could possibly mean by it.

“My lady wife,” he began, before clearing his throat. “Brienne. We can proceed with the game, or—that is, if you'll allow it—we can retire for the night.”

“Oh,” Brienne said. It had been a long day, and they’d spent the last half hour chasing each other around the room with wooden swords. “Of course.”

“We can still—”

“No, it's all right. Forgive me, you must be tired. I didn’t realise how late it is.” She felt silly. How could she assume he’d have the strength still to entertain her? But then, why had he suggested the game?

“Tired? No, I meant—”

Her mouth ran away from herself, however, as she continued, “Did you know, I had to bathe two hours before dawn this morning? Then came the dress and the cosmetics and the hair… what a terribly long day it’s been, don’t you think?”

That stopped him. “So early? Gods, Brienne, I didn’t think—are _you_ tired?”

“No!” she said, too quickly. She was awake and wound up and warm all over. She could not imagine falling asleep. “But I thought you were?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to go to bed. With you.” And he squeezed her hand and gave her a look that left no more room for misunderstandings.

“Oh.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I thought I could still fight you even with your arms bared, but now that I know what your legs look like… I can only think of having them wrapped around me.”

“Oh,” she said again, embarrassed, excited, all out of words. Now she also couldn’t think of anything else but the image of Jaime in her embrace, between her legs.

He placed his free hand on her hip lightly. “If you’ll let me.”

She lifted her free hand and pressed it over his heart. His skin was warm and sweat-damp, and beneath, his heart beat quickly and heavily, just like hers.

He wanted her, too.

“My stays,” she said, breaking the silence. “I should take them off before—before.”

He nodded. “And my breeches.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you'll forgive my rudeness, but gods, they’ve been tight.”

She reddened at the implication, then reddened further when she realised that they didn’t look much tighter than at the start of their bout. “That sounds… uncomfortable.” She added, “They laced my stays tighter than usual, today. So I could have a waist.”

He frowned. “Did you not have one, before?”

“Not one fit for a bride,” she said bitterly. “Will you help?”

He did. He made quick work of her stays, and—before he stepped back in front of her—he pressed his lips to her nape.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night, with your hair all up and pretty,” he said.

Pretty. He called her hair—he called _her_ —pretty. She felt like crying. She felt like laughing. Instead of any of that, however, she pulled at the laces on his waistband. The knot unravelled. Her fingers slipped between the crisscrossing laces and pulled them loose. 

“Take this off,” she ordered.

Jaime took a sharp intake of breath. “Right away, my lady.” Eagerly, he divested himself of his breeches and smallclothes before standing before her and giving her a proud salute. And how proud his… _salute_ was, indeed.

Brienne knew what cocks looked like. Take any book from the Evenfall library, and one would find a crude scribble or two depicting its likeness, sometimes complete with droplets of seed erupting from its tip. Go to the fields often enough, and one would eventually catch the horses mating.

Jaime’s cock, however, was not so terrifying as a stallion’s, nor so ridiculous as an ink scribble. Brienne tilted her head, and as if following her movement, the cock twitched.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s perfectly fine.”

He wrinkled his nose. “‘Perfectly fine’?”

Unsure of how to explain that comment without sounding more foolish than she already felt, Brienne nodded and—before Jaime could question her further—lifted her shift over her head and tossed it behind her.

This time, it was he who said _oh,_ and instead of making the mistake of asking him what he meant, she said, “Shall we?”

He nodded stiffly and took her hand again. As if entering a dance, they fell in step, one foot in front of the other until they reached the bed.

He looked up at her. “May I kiss you?”

“You may,” she said, already leaning in.

They met in the middle. His lips were soft and his kiss was gentle and she burned with a need for more. They were no longer in a sept, no longer dressed in finery. No longer dressed at all. Must he be so chaste and careful with her?

So, she nipped his bottom lip and sucked. He gasped against her mouth, his arms encircling her, his cock pressed to her belly. Her own hands roamed his body, learning the shape of his arms, the firmness of his chest, the slight dimples on his back. His skin was warm like sunlight on hers; she wanted to bask in his touch forever.

When they eventually came up for air, he looked at her with a look she’d seen on him in the courtyard every time he was going to go on the offence. Here, she knew not what it meant, yet it still sent a similar sort of anticipation down her spine.

“It means, I want you.” Before she could ask, he said, “I told you before, didn't I? Your face is very loud.”

She frowned; he lifted himself on his toes and kissed the knot between her brows.

“I quite like it,” he said, “your very loud face.”

Rolling her eyes, she shoved him; he dramatically collapsed onto the bed, spread-eagled. Her breath caught. She’d enjoyed the sight of his defeated sprawl before—a bruise still marred his thigh from their bout a few days before—but there was usually more dust and clothes involved. There was usually less to see.

She couldn’t look away. Could scarcely believe that this was truly happening.

“Well…” he drawled, putting one arm under his head. His lambent gaze burned. The jut of his chin was a challenge; the jut of his cock, an invitation. “If you're only going to watch, I'll just…” His hand wandered down, gliding past his taut belly, grasping his own length.

She knelt before the edge of their bed, between the drapes of his legs. He slowed; she said, “Go on.”

So he did, and she watched, learned the way he touched it, the rhythm of his strokes, the way his thumb swiped over the tip. She noted the way he tensed in pleasure, the stutters of his breath.

And then, she told him, “Stop.”

He did. The tip of his cock glistened and she reached out, touched it as he had—“ _Gods,_ Brienne!”—stroked it slowly at first, then faster as his hips rocked upwards to meet her touch, faster as words tumbled out of his mouth, praises and pleas and prayers and curses, faster until he put his hand on hers to stop her.

“Come up here,” he begged. “I want to touch you.”

There was no grace in the way she clambered over him, her legs bracketing his hips, but he looked up to her as a sailor would a star-strewn sky.

“Brienne,” he said, his fingertips pressed to her cheek. He leaned up to her. She closed her eyes. As his breath washed over her face, he placed one hand on her middle and flipped her under him.

He smirked down at her; she glared up at him until he kissed her properly. His hand found her breast, squeezing, pinching. He rolled her nipple between his fingers and she groaned against his mouth, her hips canting up to seek for something. Friction, touch, heat. She wound her fingers through his hair to pull him close, closer, press his skin to hers, and his hand left her breast, and she whined, but soon his fingers slipped between her folds, sliding across her, around and around and around, so dizzyingly that she couldn’t make a sound but for quiet gasps against his mouth.

And then he pulled away from their kiss and put his mouth around her nipple and _sucked_.

The world went bright. Her body was a storm of warmth and pleasure, so sharp and blinding, and all the while his fingers continued its relentless work on her cunt as if she wasn’t falling apart from his touch.

Eventually, she slumped back onto the sheets and he withdrew, kneeling over her. He lifted the hand that was on her cunt to his mouth, licking it clean before he bent down and rolled them to their sides and gently kissed her with salty lips.

The kiss was gentle. Almost chaste, even, if not for her taste on their tongues and the hard cock against her leg. He was patient, undemanding. She knew that if she asked him to stop, he would.

But she didn’t want him to stop, so she pushed him back until she could look at him properly.

“Jaime,” she said, taking his cock in one hand and smiling as he thrust against her touch. “Fuck me.”

“Thank the gods,” he groaned. “I was prepared to—”

“Stop, yes. I know. You still can if you want to.” She schooled her expression into a mask of absolute seriousness. “You must be exhausted after losing our bout.”

He barked out a laugh. “Still with the insults?”

“Always,” she said. “Now, fuck me.”

He inhaled sharply at the order. “As you wish.”

He pulled her leg up to rest on his hip. Shifted so the tip of his cock was pressed to her opening. And then, he entered her in one slow stroke. Her mouth fell open in a silent moan. She gripped his shoulder tightly, her knuckles white and straining, as she adjusted to the fullness of him inside of her.

It didn’t hurt. She’d been told that it would hurt. She’d been told her husband would only fuck her in the dark, out of obligation. She’d been told a great many lies. Here her husband was, and he might not love her like in the songs, or think of her a fair maiden to be rescued and protected, but he was hard inside of her, had wanted her even as they’d played with wooden swords.

He said, “Are you—”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Keep going.”

He answered her with a kiss before he began rocking his hips.

Seeking for better purchase, she hiked her leg higher, pushed herself closer to him, but it wasn’t enough. She needed something more, something else. She pushed him back.

“What—” he began, but then she straddled him and lowered herself onto his cock, and his question turned into a groan and his hands flew to grasp on her hips. She moved, sinking and rising, and his hips followed, chased her, and soon enough it was almost like any other bout with the pushing and pulling, the back and forth.

She knew him well and she was a quick study, and so it wasn’t too long before the rhythm of their movements grew frantic, urgent, before he chanted her name over and over, before his breathing quickened and his whole body tensed and his seed filled her, hot and wet, before they slumped back, limp-limbed.

He patted her waist; she obliged, falling to the side to lie down facing him. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he was catching his breath. She took advantage of the silence to study the profile of his face, the elegant slope of his nose, his kiss-swollen lips.

“I think you bruised me,” Brienne said.

He turned to look at her with wide, hazy eyes. “Did I? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not the first time you have.” She closed her eyes and remembered the pleasure of his painful grip on her hips. “I rather liked it.”

He pulled her to him. She was strong enough that she could simply not move, but his touch was a flame and she was but a moth. So, she followed. Rested her head on the crook of his shoulder. Draped her arm across his middle.

“I’m afraid you’ve ruined me forever,” Jaime said, playing with her hair. “I shall never be able to fight you again unless it involves getting you naked.”

Brienne snorted. “Go to sleep, Jaime.”

“But we haven’t decided who won.”

“I suppose we’ll need to go another round,” Brienne said. “But we’ll wait until you’re fully recovered. This must be tough on your battle-worn bones.”

Jaime rolled around, flipping her on her back and pressed his mouth to her jaw. She shivered. He chuckled. “I could use the exercise.”


End file.
